


Bel-Air Now, Pakora Now

by chillafterdark



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillafterdark/pseuds/chillafterdark





	Bel-Air Now, Pakora Now

Will gets home after Chris, for once. It’s just shy of eight, he’s tired and distracted, but he’s got two bags of Indian takeout clutched in one hand, a weekend in front of him, and, unless the light visible from down the hall deceives, a warm body to collapse against as soon as he drops the food and empties his pockets. "Hello, the house!" he calls over his own clatter, and hears a vague grunt from the living room.

Chris is parked on the couch underneath both cat and laptop. He glances up when Will enters, sharp blue glint above his glasses, and grants him a perfunctory smile: Hello, person whom I like, I acknowledge you, but am mostly elsewhere. Down in it. Okay then, no hug quite yet. Will makes a kissy-face at him and carries on to the kitchen, flicking the light and plunking dinner on the counter.

Then, struck, he pokes his head back out and stares. His boyfriend doesn’t notice. His chin is tucked, his shoulders big inside his cardigan. He’s got a frown line inching up his forehead.

He looks like a children’s author.

Abruptly, Will has to retreat back into the kitchen for real and busy himself over the sink, scrubbing the day’s commute from his hands. Pakora now or pakora later? He unfurls the top of the nearest takeout bag, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. Aw, yis. Pakora now. Napkins, cutlery, an Anchor Steam out of the fridge, and he’s popping the top off as the image rolls around and finally coheres in his head: Chris ensconced just so, but with twenty, thirty years on him, chin-to-chest and bespectacled, solid and broad-faced in middle age.

Will takes a long, soothing swallow of beer and sinks into a chair. Slips his tablet from its case to catch up on his news feed while he snacks. After a few minutes, he steps on his socks, one after the other, to pull them off, and tucks his feet up, half-lotus. He’s spent enough hours kissing Chris’s temples to know exactly where his laugh lines will come in. But where will the sarcasm lines go?

He hears a small, warning thump and then he’s got a lapful of Brian. Loyal to Dad, Brian, but no dummy, he’s drawn his conclusions about a warm lap versus a warm lap plus one hand free for scratchings and possibly redistribution of edibles. Will suffers no delusions about the bounds of his value to the household. "Tamarind?" Will asks, dipping his finger and offering it for inspection.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," says Brian.

"Don’t feed Brian any curry," comes a plea from the living room. "He’ll fart." 

"Sorry," says Will, mostly to the cat, and sucks the sauce off his finger. Chris is surfacing. Will picks up his tablet again and tries to read a story on Boing Boing about fossilized turtles, but the daydream has a hold on him now. He’ll have movies under his belt by then, and God knows how many books; he’ll be a pillar of the community, powerhouse, guest of honor, philanthropist, mentor. Will has seen him interact with fans and students before; he knows the effect of his kindness. His hair will probably recede even as it stays thick. He’ll toss his head, pretending to be vain, and insist it’s dignified. 

A warm hand cups his shoulder, and Will turns toward Chris’s smile, close and fully present, now, as he angles down for a kiss. The tablet falls with a clop and Will slides an arm around his trim waist. "Hi, hon."

"Ooh, spicy," Chris exclaims, pulling back and smacking his lips, as if he hasn’t been able to smell it for ten minutes. Will pinches his hip. He dances back toward the fridge and bends down to extricate a Coke, hair flopping as he bobs his head and wiggles his butt to Lana Del Rey whistled through his teeth. 

"Good writing day," Will surmises, twisting to watch him, gorgeously boyish from this angle from his vulnerable nape to his silly athletic socks.

"Unexpected writing day, yeah. Ready to be done, though." He grins over his shoulder.

Will hauls him in again before he sits, smooshes his face into his midriff and inhales with a deep sigh. Chris pets his hair, and the tune of his whistle ("I know you will, I know you will…”) rises like a cartoon sound effect, like a question.

"I just might," says Will.


End file.
